| [ |
mood |
| |
indifferent |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Diamanda Galas- Unclean |
] |
*Faith walks into her room, dropping the suitcase and her bag, sitting down on the small, single bed in the room. She looked around the room, her lips curling slightly as her brown eyes take in the plain white walls, the small window, the dresser, the open door leading to the tiny bathroom, and the closet. She had been reduced to staying in this tiny room, not much different than the last foster home she'd been in, but a wide leap from the comforting home that she had grown up in. As thoughts flooded her mind, her brown eyes filled with tears, blinking rapidly to fight back the tears. Her slender hands clenched into fists as she fought back the tears, refusing to let them fall, thinking to herself "Tears are a sign of weakness... I can't cry." She shook her head, her brown hair tumbling around her shoulders as she composed herself and slowly opened her eyes once again, the brown hard and cold. She reached into her backpack and pulled out a journal, uncapping a pen and flipping to a blank page, taping the pen against the page for a moment before starting to write, filling the page with her tiny writing*
They said I needed to be sent away... I needed help. I can't control myself, I can't take care of myself. I can't do anything, according to my last foster family. They were so helpful to my shrink, telling them "everything" and saying I was just a "depressed girl who needs more help than we can give her." Yeah fucking right. I didn't get a chance to talk about everything that had gone on before they shipped me off to this place. But I suppose Mandalay Bay is better than that fucking hell hole. Their definition of "everything" didn't include the rapes, or the beatings. Not to mention how often I was starved. I should have offered to show my shrink the scars. They criss-cross my back and thighs. They look pretty awful. I'm terrified to look at them, and I'm sure anyone else would be too. I should have gotten up the guts to tell my doctor "everything", but I couldn't. I was frozen in fear as I felt his hand squeeze my shoulder. I knew what that warning was. And I heeded it.
And because of that, I'm here because of a wrong diagnosis. I'm clinically depressed- well, I agree with that; I have an anti-social personality disorder- no, I'm just too terrified of people to talk to many; I'm anorexic- I can't comment on that, because I've always been starved; I'm a nymphomanic- haha, that's the biggest joke right there. I'm too terrified of sex to ever willingly participate in it. I've got post-traumatic stress disorder- another one I'd agree with. But the truth is- I'm clinically depressed, I do have post-trauamtic stress disorder, and I'm the victim of a life spent in the system. I've gone through foster home after foster home in the four years since Mama and Papa... passed away. And then, there's also everything that happened with my family. I don't even know where to start with that. It's still too painful to talk about. I don't cry- tears are for the weak- but I freeze up and according to the last person who asked what happened, send death glares to the people around me. It's not something I want to talk about just yet.
*Faith drops the pen on the notebook, placing the notebook down and getting up to walk to the window, attempting to open the panes of glass, then slamming her fist against it when it refuses to budge. She winces, shaking her hand as she walks back to the bed and picks up her notebook*
How do you deal with being 16 years old and wanting to end your life? Aren't we supposed to be out having fun, going on dates and worrying about what shoes you should wear with what outfit?
If only life were that simple.
|